


Because I am Damned

by Josafeena



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Self-Flagellation, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29870067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josafeena/pseuds/Josafeena
Summary: The Weeping Monk feels conflicted and seeks guidance from the Lord but is interrupted by Abbott Wicklow. Set just before Father Carden arrives to give his pep talk.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	Because I am Damned

**Author's Note:**

> A short between scene, because Wicklow was so super intense about the Weeping Monk it just begged to be written about.  
> Come on, Netflix! #RenewCursed already!

The Weeping Monk swept into his tent and dropped to his knees in front of the makeshift altar. Bowing his head, he let out a long weary exhalation.  
He could still feel the sting on his cheek from Father's slap. It didn't pain him, but the shame of being reprimanded so publicly still lingered, like another stain on his cheek.

The Fey boy was by now tied to the chair about to be tortured. For all his mercy and his lean principles, the Monk had failed to save the boy, and he could not defy his father again to prevent it. Frustration boiled up within him. If this one boy was worthy of saving, what of the countless others who had the misfortune of crossing his path?

The Green Knight's words had run a battering ram through his convictions. He might spare the children's lives, but he had not spared them the heartache of lost loved ones and burned homesteads. Losses he himself had long since buried were now resurrected and remembered afresh. And he still couldn't understand why the Knight hadn't used the knowledge of the Monk's Fey heritage to his advantage. It made no sense to him when all his life, any weakness, any vulnerability had been preyed upon and attacked. Why would this Fey not do what was expected and expose him?

He pressed his forehead to the cold edge of the altar. It would do him no good to dwell on what he had worked so hard to put behind him. He pushed those thoughts forcibly from his mind and grasped desperately for the religious practice Father had taught him.

Murmuring words of pleading, he begged the Heavens with his very being for help and guidance. To feel something, anything, like the surety of purpose he had felt before this day. He tried to sense some of the Lord's presence, the way he could with magical beings. He'd asked as a boy if the divine possessed a scent he might be able to seek out, but Father had slapped him for such impertinence.

He cleared his mind of all but the feverish longing for warmth to fill him, the way it did when he reached for strength from the earth, with his wicked Fey powers. But he felt nothing. Alone with his thoughts like this, he felt only despair and exile. The doors of Heaven were firmly shut to him, to his kind. No matter how he might claw at the entrance. There was only blackness, only shame and doubt. And he had felt never more alone in this world than now.

He squeezed his eyes shut against tears that welled there.

"Might I be of assistance?"

He froze, hearing the slightly nasal voice behind him. He'd been too lost in his woes to sense the Abbott's approach. He scraped all his turmoil back into the dark recesses of his mind.

"Your Grace." He began to rise stiffly, but before he could get to his feet, a delicate hand landed on his still-hooded head, forcing him back to his knees.

"Please, my child. 

Don't get up." The Abbott spoke in his gracious, courtly voice. "I'm gratified to find you seeking the Lord's forgiveness at this time. Particularly after your little… demonstration earlier."

"I spoke out of turn." 

He ducked his head, shame again flushing his cheek, glad to have the hood to shadow him.

He was unsettled by this man, unsure how to speak to him. The Abbott's gaze was watchful. He took his time before he spoke. "You're quite the prize in Father Carden's arsenal. He had written most proudly of your successes. I confess it's made me rather curious."

The Abbott slunk behind the altar, taking the position of celebrant and confessor, towering over the Monk, who knelt on the other side.

"Do not hide your face from God, child. Let him see your sacrifices."

The Monk slowly pulled back his hood, keeping his eyes fixed on the altar. Without the hood, his facial markings were all the more visible and distinct from the dirt and blood of battle.

"You were concerned about that boy. You thought him innocent, perhaps?"

He risked a glance upwards at the Abbott but did not answer. He knew the boy was as capable of treachery as any Fey; it seemed unfair that he should face the torment of Brother Salt's kitchen after he'd escaped with his life from their last encounter.

"Perhaps your resolve has wavered?" The Abbott mused. "Perhaps your commitment to God is not so robust?"

"No, I-"

"Do you often speak out of turn?"

He cursed himself for falling into that trap.

The Abbott went on with a conversational tone, but the Monk could clearly scent the poison in his words. "I have watched you strut about this camp with impunity. A status granted to you by Father Carden, above your brother Paladins, presumably for your uncanny skills. But God sees all, and the sin of pride is no less a sin than the blasphemy of these Fey." The Abbott came back around the altar and took the Monk's chin his hand, raising his face, and peered at the weeping marks the bled down his face.

"Now, how did you come by these scars?"

A thumb rubs across his cheek, where no scar tissue would be felt. 

The Abbott hummed, frowning down at him. "A dye perhaps? Some sort of … tribal decoration, is it?" He sneered.

The Monk pursed his lips, refusing to answer. Let him believe what he wished.

"Perhaps a penance should be paid for your insubordination?" His eyes slid over to the side of the tent where whips, straps and birch rods were hung.

The Monk clenched his jaw but kept his face blank.

This small expression from the other man brought a wry smile to the Abbott's face.

"Yes, I think so. Mortification of the flesh should cast out the sinful nature of your disobedience; your pride."

He ran a finger across the display.

"Do you want to choose, or shall I?"

"Your Grace." He bowed his head, knowing that trap for what it was.

"Hmm." Wicklow ran a finger along the birch rod, then the paddle, as if to appreciate the fine workmanship.

He settled on a short but lethal whip, the kind that would tear flesh to shreds.

"Strip."

The Monk's stomach dropped, but he knows this routine all too well. He didn't hurry, but with efficient fingers, he unfastened his cloak, then pulled off his gambeson and the two layers underneath, folding them carefully at his side. He sat with his back straight, hands on his thighs, preparing himself mentally for this ritual.

"It's been a while, hasn't it? Long overdue, I suspect." The Abbott walked around him, no doubt examining the old scars on his back. It had been a while since he'd had to punish himself, and most had healed into a latticework of raised white scars.

The Monk swallowed, he wished the Abbott would finish watching him and get started, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the altar in front of him.

"Perhaps this will teach you. God has no place for the disobedient, the prideful, the sullied, or the damned."

The Abbott thrust the whip handle in front of his face.

"Off you go." 

He took hold of the whip and readied himself. The Abbott gave an impatient little hand gesture.

The first strike was always a little surprising, as though the memory of this act had been exaggerated and seemed easier to bear than he'd imagined. It wasn't until the fourth or fifth lash that the pain redoubled, and the flesh began to protest.

"Pray to him." The Abbott commanded. "Beg his forgiveness, beg and beg until he responds."

The Monk knew better than to slow the lashes' rhythm but began to murmur the familiar words of prayer.

"In nomine Patri…"

"Louder."

He cleared his throat and began again in a clear voice. “In nomine patri et spiritu sancti…”

He stuttered and choked through the rest, meaningless Latin fluttering from his lips—a lash on every fifth or sixth syllable.

There was blood flowing freely now. He could feel the split skin, but he knew it was too early to stop.

He switched arms when his right got tired, making sure to keep the damage evenly spread across both shoulders and sides.

The Abbott led him in a clear and fervent voice to a new prayer he hasn't heard before.

“Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur: tuque, Princeps militiae caelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude.”

[Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.]

The words washed over him. 

He knew the imagery of that evil and wickedness all too well. He tried to concentrate on the pain, the cleansing of his sins and his nature that this punishment should bring, in the hopes that God would look upon a pitiful creature working in his name and grant him mercy for his existence in defiance of God's plan.

The Abbott continues his prayer in a loud, almost feverish voice, jolting along with each blow. 

He was biting his lips, clasping trembling hands together in white-knuckled prayer.

The Monk began to struggle to lift his arm for another hit, groaning at the sudden weight of the whip. 

One more slice landed. He tried again, but the strike isn't hard enough.

He couldn't command his arm to be stronger but knew there would be further punishment should his flagellation be deemed too soft, too lenient. In the past, Father Carden had locked him in a cell, and when he was smaller, in a box. He despaired of ever being put in the box again, trapped inside, scratching at the lid until his fingers bled.

One more hit. Not the box. One more slash. Not the box.

He sobbed. Not from the pain but that his arm wasn't strong enough, but he had to; he had to keep going.

He switches the whip back to his right hand, which quivered.

One more. One more.

"Enough."

The whip dropped from his numb fingers. He swayed on his knees. The room was spinning, and he had to brace his hands on the ground. Drops fell in front of him, and he realised they're his tears.

"There, there." A hand was placed gingerly on the crown of his head, over the cross carved there. 

"That was very well done. _Uncanny_ ."

The Abbott walks around to the front of the altar. "One must do what one can to strive for the Lord's mercy, even when the cause is hopeless."

The Monk took gasping breathes, trying desperately not to scream or sob. The agony that pounded from his back outwards was robbing him of words. 

"Can you feel it?" 

The Abbott grinned. "His grace, His gladness of this act?"

The Monk felt no warmth, no grace, nothing but pain, but he was used to controlling it, to not letting it control him. He felt only his breath, his heartbeat, and his need to stop quivering like a leaf.

"Even the damned", Wicklow smiles sweetly, poisonously. "Must strive to be worthy of God's Grace, no matter how fruitless such attempts might seem."

He blinks owlishly at the Abbott, wondering if somehow he's given himself away. He gazes at the man trying to determine his meaning. He sniffed. His eyes were drawn to where the Abbott had clasped his hands together in front of his groin. He noticed the slight rosiness of his cheeks and the dilation of his pupils, the glint of sweat over the man's bitten lips. It was arousal he was smelling, and he was horrified to realise the tent was thick with it.

The Abbott seems to quell a little under the Monk's gaze; his feathers ruffled. He smoothed down his cassock, setting his pointed face into a tranquil mask of superiority.

"Ah, yes. I forgot to mention." He smirked. "Father Carden was looking for you."

He sweeps out, leaving the Monk on his knees, hands bracing tightly on his knees, holding himself upright by a thread.

Tears fell anew down the roots painted on his skin by God or the Hidden, marking him a sorrowful creature for all his days.

There was no grace to felt this day, only agony and the isolation of being a Fey among zealous religious men. He felt trapped again in the box. For all the strokes he had taken, for all the punishment he'd born in the Lord's name, there seemed to be no escape from his cage.

How much longer would he be able to hide among these men? With men like Wicklow at the head of the Church, how long would it be before they sniffed him out and burned him like his brethren?

But what other roads were open to a damned creature like him?


End file.
